


Not Quite Lacan

by localfreak



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Character Study, Domestic, Domestic Avengers, Gen, Moving, Stark Tower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:10:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/localfreak/pseuds/localfreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a short piece of character exploration. Natasha, on moving in to the tower, makes a small adjustment to the layout of her rooms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Lacan

**Author's Note:**

> Additional notes: It has come to my attention some of my fic has been uploaded to a website I do not trust. I would like to make it abundantly clear I do not give permission for my work to be shared on any other website (linking to my fic's URL is fine), or uploaded anywhere without my knowledge and expressed permission. Quite frankly, if I want to upload it somewhere I'll do it myself.

Natasha cursed under her breath, staring hard at the Problem which glared back at her. With time, and planning, she could do this without help, but she wasn’t feeling particularly patient. The rooms that Tony had provided for her were more than pleasant, or they would be once she had fixed the Problem. The Problem rolled its eyes at her ridiculousness and she fought back the urge to simply use her fists and have it done. 

A heavy, careful tread made its way along the hall outside her rooms and, giving one last glare at the Problem, she walked away and stuck her head out of the door. Steve, of course, she’d known his tread. Clint would’ve been her first choice normally, once you’ve bled all over someone or drugged them heavily you feel a certain amount of understanding, after all, but Cap would do.

“Come in a minute would you?”

Steve stared for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite recall who she was. She supposed that with her hair tied back in a scruffy pony tail, loose jeans and a shirt on, she looked alien enough to someone who’d only ever seen her in uniform or dressed for the public. Then again, Steve had his own problems, she reminded herself, he could just as easily be remembering _when_ he was, jolting out of his memories.

“Sure.” 

Steve followed Natasha into her room, his eyes taking in the pile of clothes, hangers and all, dumped on the bed and the open door to the closet.

“What do you need?” 

She pointed to the Problem. “Hold onto that while I unscrew it.”

He opened his mouth, maybe to ask why, or maybe to suggest she hold it whilst he unscrewed it for her, but he looked again at her face and wisely chose not to, instead placing his hands carefully on the front of the mirror as she climbed up the step ladder to reach the screws. It took only a few moments.

“Are you getting rid of it?” he asked, fingers curled around the edges as it came away from the wall. 

“Moving it in there,” she gestured and he obligingly carried the mirror into the walk-in closet. She directed him to where to put it, against the back wall, then, bringing the tool kit over she made the drill holes to fix it in.

The closet was more than roomy enough for both of them to stand in easily, Tony’s apartments were nothing if not lavish, and the closet would come in handy for all the costumes she kept for different occasions. The mirror, too, would be useful to double check her weapons were well hidden, and her smile was in place correctly prior to a mission. 

She could see Steve’s reflection, watching hers in the mirror as she worked. He didn’t speak. She makes him nervous; she always makes people nervous. Their eyes stare, and then slide away, only knowing that they feel uncomfortable, without really seeing why. She knows why. Nobody can read anything into her body language, her face, which she does not put there for that purpose. Natasha offered Steve a tight smile in the mirror and then looked quickly away, cringing inside, because she never can get used to that- even a smile meant to give comfort on her looks like a calculation (which it is), and therefore false. Untrustworthy. 

“It’s more useful here,” she offered after the silence weighed heavy and she tightened the last screw. 

She didn’t say that she prefers to lock her reflection away, somewhere she doesn’t have to look at it, except for the purpose of checking her mask is in place for the day.

She didn’t mention long mirrored ball rooms filled with people whose eyes catch their reflections in the mirror and slide away, easy and familiar. She didn’t mention the fact that, when she catches her own eyes in the mirror, she never sees a real person looking back. She certainly doesn’t see herself, whoever that might be. 

She didn’t talk about the way others’ reflections match up and hers, though it might look familiar, never really shows her, only a doll, a shell, a new mask. Never a person.

But, as she thanked Steve and led him to the door, he looked back at her and she wondered if he understood more than what was said aloud.

After all, if anyone else could understand what it was like to glance at a mirror and see a lie or a stranger looking back, it might be Steve Rogers.


End file.
